Aunt Polly

We are driving to Aunt Polly’s and have to cross the international border from Canada into New York State. “Okay, I’ll keep them,” I replied, “but I can’t guarantee that we won’t get busted.”

Aunt Polly lives in North Hero, on Lake Champlain. We visit her at last once a year, and Beth and I usually smoke a joint or two on the four hour road trip. But the border crossing has become more challenging. First of all, they pull you out of line if they even suspect you look like a terrorist: dark features, beards, beady eyes, any or all of the above. Yup. You get the motion to pull aside.

We’re Irish, red hair, pallid freckled skin, so the visual cues probably won’t be a problem. But they have security dogs, sniffing around for sensimila or harder drugs. Ultimately they’re looking for dealers or smugglers, neither of which we are.

I inhale a deep toke, crack my window, and turn up Pearl Jam. “I’m not going to worry about it, Beth,” I shout over ‘Alive.’ “Did you bring your roach clip?”

Aunt Polly is single, lives alone for over thirty years. Beth suspects that she might have some lady friend, but I just think she’s asexual.

This is fun, a road trip on mary jane. But would these two be so clueless about just getting high with one joint? Then going through the border without the pot, and buying some when they get to Aunt Polly’s? Better yet, keep a stash there! LOL.